Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [20]
Arthur, I’m uncharitably pleased to note, is sporting a stray kernel of cepes risotto on his Fendi tie. Despite expressing his initial doubts about the dish, he ended up ordering it, anyway, and then—suspicions confirmed—was loath to share all but the tiniest taste.
We are all so full by dessert that we only order two, a tarte tatin and a cheese and fruit plate. When Arthur makes as if to summon the sommelier, Renata wrestles his arm to the table.
“Arthur, if you order another bottle of wine, I will fall into my cheese.”
“Yes, she gets sloppy when she’s drunk, to that I will attest,” says Michael, a small belch escaping him.
“Are you sure? A small digestif, Michael, might be just the ticket.”
I’m feeling slightly woozy myself, which I attribute to the wine, the rich food, and the lateness of the hour. I wonder fleetingly if Arthur Cole could be trying to get me drunk. His perfectly manicured hand is now lying mere inches from my own, his fingers slightly greasy from the shellfish. For some reason, I find this small and insignificant departure from perfection endearing. For several moments I can’t stop thinking about his hands, which I imagine on my body. Not that I want them to be—in fact, I’m quite sure I don’t. I look over at Renata, who has taken Michael’s hand and is softly running her fingers across his knuckles. This gets me thinking about Michael’s hands, which disturbs me even further. What’s the matter with me? I must be drunk.
Arthur doesn’t join us on the way home. He lives on the Upper East Side (where else?), and we are headed to the Village. Outside the restaurant he shakes my hand. “Lovely meal. Lovely,” he says, planting a disinterested peck on my cheek. And then he’s gone.
In the cab on the way home, Renata lays her head on Michael’s shoulder and within seconds begins to snore. “You want to know the worst thing about foodies?” Michael asks, resting his head on the back of the cab and yawning. “I mean the diehards like Arthur Cole? They have no sense of humor. My God—it’s only food!”
Michael may be right, but that still doesn’t stop me from wondering why Arthur Cole, insufferable bore, found me so unappealing that he could barely muster a decent good night. Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat and a tingling behind my eyes. Why should this upset me? This date I hadn’t even wanted, with a guy I didn’t even like.
“At least the food was exceptional,” Michael says, and I can feel him turning to look at me. I’m not sure I trust myself to speak. “I’m sorry, Mira,” he says softly. “But at least it’s over.”
“Yes, I don’t think I’ll be hearing from Arthur Cole.” This I manage through tightened lips.
“No, I didn’t mean that. If I know Arthur, he’ll probably give you a call. He can sometimes be a little slow on the uptake socially, if you know what I mean. What I meant was the date. Your first post-separation date. It’s over. That’s a milestone. Welcome to the rest of your life, Mira,” he says solemnly, offering me his hand. Suddenly, it’s as if someone has loosened the plug in my throat, and I’m crying.
Michael pulls a wad of tissues from his pocket and hands them to me. “I know just how you feel,” he says softly, wrapping his arm around me and patting my back. I bury my face in his jacket, which smells of the evening, of shellfish, and wine, and the subtle underlying scent of tobacco. The comfort of it sucks the breath from my body. When the cab pulls up in front of my building, Michael gently disengages me.
“Good night and thank you,” I tell him, more formally than I intended, embarrassed at having sobbed for the last twenty blocks on the shoulder of my friend’s husband, a man I hadn’t met before tonight. “I’ll send Gabriella down,” I say, offering my hand. Michael gives it a reassuring squeeze. “It will get better, I promise, Mira,” he says, gesturing to the still sleeping Renata. “Just be thankful this was only a date. At least you don’t have to read his three hundred and fifty-page treatise on the germination of corn.”
chapter 6
I’m out of practice. The rich food and the wine catch up with